The Golden Song
The rain in the city does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the asphalt into a mirror that reflects nothing but the low, bruised sky and the neon bleed of the storefronts you have walked past a thousand times. You are walking home, or rather, you are walking away from the precinct, the weight of your service weapon feeling like a leaden anchor against your hip, a...
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